


The Art of War

by needleandspoon



Series: 3 Lies [1]
Category: U2
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-08
Updated: 2007-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needleandspoon/pseuds/needleandspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just sex. Nothing complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of War

**Author's Note:**

> Written in collaboration with the fabulous Melissa2U with whose kind permission these stories are reposted here.

"Wanna fuck?"

Bono's voice is low, pitched just for him, but it means nothing, it's just round forty-two of a game they've been playing right from the start. Adam knows this, and it's not like he's not fond of games - he is - but if there were ever rules for this one they were lost long ago and now it's becoming... something else entirely. Adam's still not sure if he's playing to lose, or to win, but it's time he decided.

Bono's arms are around him, humid with post-show sweat in the backstage press of noise and movement, Edge and Larry are right there with them but in that second there's only them, the two of them, in a tiny island of heat and indecision.

Until the indecision breaks and is gone in the space of a breath.  
"Do I get to pick who?"

Punctuating with a lick quick enough to be masked by his own lips whispering in Bono's ear, Adam feels the smugness of victory. Bono's body shakes under his hands, quiet laughter that could mean anything. Or nothing at all. There's far more meaning in the way Larry's eyes narrow and the slight crease of Edge's brow.

Though not nearly as much as is contained in Bono's hips.

Larry and Edge are forgotten with Adam's decision that rules are made to be fucked over.

"It was an invitation," Bono murmurs in his ear, breaking into Adam's thoughts, "not a bloody rhetorical question." He grinds against Adam's thigh. "Yes or no?"

Adam's every bit as hard as Bono already and if there are reasons not to do this, then he can't remember a damned one. There's been enough fucking around and nowhere near enough fucking.

"My room. As soon as we get back. And get your damn hand off my arse. Edge looks like he wants to strangle me with an E string."

"Better than with Larry's g-string."

This is inordinately funny, probably more so than Adam truly should find it. A flash of an image shoots through Adam's mind: Edge throttling him with Larry's underwear. It makes him smile, distracting him from the matter at hand. A swat to his arse brings him out of his imaginings, and back to the promise of Bono.

One step. One step backwards and Bono's at arm's length. Playing the game, another rule, walk away and leave it to him to follow.

***

It seems like only minutes later, though Adam knows it must be longer, that they're in the limo and speeding away from the stadium. Larry's beside him, thunder on his face and questions in his eyes and Bono's sitting opposite, hyper and chattering, climbing all over Edge, dragging a reluctant laugh out of him. Adam just watches their reflections in the dark window and waits, smiling to himself.

More fans in front of the hotel and for once Bono's telling whoever's driving tonight to take them in through the parking lot instead of making them run the gauntlet. Anyone would think he was in a hurry to be upstairs.

Bono mostly behaves himself in the lift, unless you count the slow burning drift of his eyes down Adam's body. The sunglasses are off and there's nothing to blunt the intensity. Adam just leans back against the mirrored wall, hands behind his back and eyes on the ceiling, his mind already in the room.  
There's jostling when the doors open and pain briefly flares on Adam's back. But there's no time to wonder who, why, or whether the elbow was an accident; Bono's strutting down the corridor like he owns it, forgoing the turn for his own room and making a direct path to Adam's.

Larry and Edge are forgotten; they're somewhere behind him is all Adam knows or cares at this point - Bono's walk is very lovely and the key feels very slippery in Adam's hand. It's easier this way, thinking ahead. Easier to pretend that Bono's blatant attention isn't noticed. Acknowledging it would mean he'd have to think on the meaning of the iron set to Larry's jaw and the contemplation on Edge's face. If he doesn't see them, maybe they'll go away.

It takes him four tries to get the card to open the door, and it would have taken more if he hadn't finally growled at Bono and made him stand a safe three feet away. Even from a distance, Bono still manages to be a distraction, of course, because he's constitutionally incapable of not being the centre of attention at all times and this is no exception. In fact, Adam thinks as he tears his eyes away from the sight of Bono unbuttoning his own shirt and flicking none-too-subtle looks up through his eyelashes, the idea that Bono thinks he's won this round may be making him even worse than usual.

But then the door's open at last and somewhere between hearing the lock click and pushing on the handle, everything spins a little out of control. Bono's crowding him through the door, all hands and heat and need, grabbing his hair and shoving his tongue between Adam's lips, letting the door close itself because he's far too busy pushing Adam up against the nearest wall and making him squirm.

Bono's hands are in Adam's pants before Adam remembers that he’s not supposed to be letting Bono have everything his way.

Gathering a fistful of hair and tugging, hard enough to pull Bono's head back and expose his throat, gives Adam valuable seconds to twist his hips and dislodge Bono's hands. How can Adam be expected to resist biting that throat, worrying the delicate skin between his teeth? Bono's moans do nothing to dissuade him.

It's possible Adam can still win. After all, Bono's arms are now around him, his hands are clinging and his body rubbing shamelessly. All Adam has to do is continue to exploit Bono's weakness until he can come up with a plan. There are worse tortures than keeping his lips and teeth focused on Bono's neck, far more difficult chores than working Bono's shirt off with his cooperation.

Bono's whispering, making promises Adam doubts he'll keep. They're just words and sounds meant to bend Adam to what Bono wants. As he shoves his hands between them and yanks at Bono's belt, Adam realises he's having a hard time remembering why giving in is a bad idea.

And then he sees the glimmer of triumph in Bono's eyes. It's always a mistake to forget that Bono plays for keeps and, no matter how much he clowns around, he's usually thinking three moves ahead. That's okay; they're a long way from checkmate just yet, and playing the game is such fun.

Adam smiles and drops to his knees.

The zipper of Bono's jeans catches for a moment, then gives as Adam tugs it down, watching Bono's face the whole time. The triumph is gone from his eyes. Now all Adam can see there is anticipation - need - and that's so much better. The long, complicated moan he drags from Bono with the first touch of his tongue is better still.

Adam teases him a little, licking here and there, one hand wrapped firmly around the base of Bono's cock, thumb rubbing down into coarse hair now and then. He's hard himself, aching with it, wanting nothing more than to spin Bono to the wall and skewer him to it, fuck him until he screams. But he won't, not yet.

A drop of fluid shines on the tip of Bono's cock. With a quick sweep of Adam's tongue, it's gone. There's no harm in flattening his tongue and feeling the silkiness of the swollen head. No harm in weighing Bono's balls in his palm and squeezing them just so.

"Adam..."

There's an undertone of warning to Bono's plea. This means nothing. Smiling, Adam continues the teasing, trying to satisfy himself with small indulgences. It's not enough.

Reminding himself that if one can't win, one should at least lose with style, Adam smiles up at Bono. He's thoroughly aware it's not a nice smile, not sweet or sunny, or even particularly happy, but it does however communicate exactly what it should to Bono.

Adam knows this because of the pre-come trickling over his fingers.

He licks his lips and takes Bono fully into his mouth at last, taking him deep, letting his teeth scrape a little on the way down. Bono's moan is gorgeous and sounds a lot like surrender. Adam knows better. It's not surrender. At best it's detente. He'll take it though, whatever it is, because he wants this more than he's ever going to admit.

Bono's hips are moving; he's fucking Adam's mouth in long, steady strokes and damn if there isn't a direct connection between Adam's throat and cock making him wriggle and ache and want to rub himself against Bono's leg like a cat in heat.

It's what Bono would do if their positions were reversed. Rub and whine and make a bloody stage production out of stroking himself, making sure Adam knew how needy he was and how terrible it was for Adam to deny him. Adam's as sure of it as he is that the pain of Bono's fingers clutching at his hair is intentional, another calculated move on Bono's part. One that Adam appreciates even as he sees it for how dangerous it can be.

There's nothing keeping Adam's hands from gripping just as hard, and he does, grabbing for another of Bono's weaknesses, his lips loosening briefly at the way Bono's muscles tighten under his palms. Adam's never known anyone who enjoys having their arse touched as much as Bono does. Just a simple caress and Bono's bucking harder into Adam's mouth, threatening to choke him.

It doesn't stop him doing it, doesn't stop him from smoothing his hands over the curves of Bono's arse, slipping his fingertips down the cleft and not quite touching where Bono wants him. Bono's hips jerk in an unfocussed rhythm, forward into Adam's mouth, back into his hands, as if he doesn't know which he wants most.

It's not an unfamiliar concept to Adam. His jaw is beginning to throb, and it's a good thing he's not the one who's got to sing tomorrow, but there's no way he's stopping now. There's a non-stop stream of noisy, wordless need coming from Bono's mouth and Adam's never wanted to fuck him more.

Adam closes his eyes. It's safer this way; he's all too aware that Bono can see his own need reflected there and Adam's got more than enough weaknesses Bono can exploit without giving him another.

He's so close to achieving a stalemate - it wouldn't be winning, not really - that he can taste it. Literally. Harder now, his cheeks hollowing, pulling with his mouth and encouraging Bono to let go, give in, buy Adam a little more time, to sober up a bit more and calculate.…

And he should have known it wasn't going to be that easy.

Adam gasps as Bono abruptly pulls back; his hands aren't quick enough to stop him. Bono's too far away to reach, pulling off his shoes and undressing himself, making Adam acutely aware that he's the one fully clothed and on his knees.

It's easily remedied. Adam sprawls back until he's lying propped on one elbow, legs bent and spread. Build from a position of strength and weakness, isn't that what Eno always says? He can do that. He can absolutely do that.

Adam lets his eyes drift slowly up Bono's body, over his stiff cock, his broad chest glistening with sweat, the length of his neck, all the way up to the bright, hard eyes that are watching him so closely. One-handed, Adam unbuttons his shirt, never taking his eyes off Bono's for a second. By the time Adam's shirt is open and he's started on his belt, Bono is biting his own lip.

Getting his pants off with one hand isn't easy, but he manages it, kicking free with another dark smile up at the man watching his every move. He's naked at last and the game is about to turn again.

Neither of them planned on the floor, by the door even, of all clichés. Moving locations now would mean someone would have to suggest it, demand it, persuade and win. Unless they come to an understanding.

"Adam." Bono's hand is scratching lazily at his hairy belly.

"Bono." Adam's hand is lying on his hip, fingers touching his thigh.

Then it's Bono touching Adam's thigh, Bono on his knees and caressing Adam as if he was made of tissue paper. It's gentle, it's tender, and it can't last; they'll both lose if it does.

When Bono's hand moves to Adam's cock, stroking him lightly from base to tip, it's too much. Too sweet, too much like it means something. Adam reaches out and stills him.

"There's a bed just over there," Adam says as he watches Bono's face.

"There is." A smile flickers around Bono's lips and he doesn't look away.

"Wouldn't you rather do this there?"

There's more than a touch of smugness in Bono's answering smile, but he doesn't say anything, just rises to his feet and takes Adam with him. Perversely, the smugness is a good thing; it helps Adam remember just what this is about and, more importantly, what it's not. He gets to his feet without another word, body humming with anticipation.

Lube and condoms are in the bed table drawer, tucked away at the idea of something else, but convenient all the same. Adam grabs them out, a second before Bono's hand curls around his upper arm and pulls him onto the bed.

The struggle for leverage is short-lived; Adam conceding that Bono has the advantage. There are worse things Adam could be doing at the moment other than laying on Bono, feeling legs wrap like iron around him, and far more difficult situations to deal with than aligning their erections just so, pressing swollen flesh to swollen flesh and chuckling at Bono's gasp.

"Want something?" Adam asks, feigning innocence very poorly.

Bono's blunt nails feel divine digging into his back.

Adam rolls his hips, luxuriating in Bono writhing beneath him. That long, white neck is bared and too damned enticing not to bite again, so Adam does. More writhing and a long, sweet moan that vibrates under his tongue. Adam bites once more just to hear it again.

Bono's rocking up into him, cock wet against his belly, breathing fast and shallow while his nails rake Adam's back from shoulder to waist. It's so tempting, God, more than tempting, to just fuck him now. It would be so easy. But he's not ready for the game to be over yet.

One more bite, just under his ear this time, one more slow, voluptuous roll of his hips, and Adam shifts, wriggling down over Bono's body. Bono clutches at him, nails digging deeper, and there's a noise that's definitely a protest. Adam looks up from where he's tormenting a hard little nipple.

"Don't whine," Adam tells him, harsher than he means to as he moves lower. "You're going to _love_ this."

Bono seems unconvinced. He pulls Adam's hair, growling as it slips through his fingers, then switches to taking hold of his biceps and trying to force Adam higher. Victory is close enough for Adam to taste, along with the salt of Bono's skin and the coarse hair of his stomach. Bono's not the only one who can plan ahead.

There's nothing to be done but to pin Bono's hips, make him be still and take what Adam's willing to give at the moment. Broad sweeps of tongue tracing bone, chin rubbing cock, and nails threatening to do as much damage as Adam suspects has been done to his back.

"They won't like that," he mumbles to himself, then buries his face in the crease of a thigh, sucking and chewing at the tender skin. Bono will have a bruise there later; the pale skin's already darkening and broken, but if Adam thinks about that at all, it only makes him smile. Adam can't spare a thought for anyone else right now; that would muddy the night and make it too complicated.

He traces a pattern with his tongue over Bono's shaft, licking delicately, teasing. Bono's answering whimper is thoroughly delicious. Another lick, darting into the slit, curling around the head, snaking down the pulsing vein in a broad, wet stroke, and Bono's thighs go taut under Adam's hands.

"Adam...." Bono's voice is low and threatening.

Adam's only reply is to swallow him down, taking him deep and fast and dirty.

"Jesusfuck..." Bono groans, hips bucking, legs spreading, "Adam...."

Adam just reaches blindly for where the lube and condoms are scattered on the bed. Bono's cock is bruising his mouth and he can hardly breathe, but he can't bring himself to care. They're in the endgame now and the taste of victory is fucking sweet.

The bottle open, Adam raises up abruptly, shifting to give himself room - and the world turns upside down. Bono's shoving him onto his back, his hands hurting Adam as they maneuver his shoulders. Surprised, the wind knocked out of him, his first realisation, strangely enough, is that his feet are dangling off the end of the bed.

Too long to recover, but long enough for Bono to rip a package open with his teeth and quickly - when did he become graceful? - unroll the condom onto Adam's cock. A hard knee presses against Adam's ribs, the flare of pain distracting. The lubricant is taken from him before he knows it.

Bono straddles him and swipes lube onto Adam's cock with hasty strokes, lining him up before Adam can get his head anywhere near sorted. And even through the latex, the touch of Bono's hands is utterly, murderously arousing. Or perhaps it's the look in Bono's eyes. Either. Neither. Both. It's not important, except that suddenly Adam's so close he's shaking with the effort of holding back.

Bono sinks down onto him with a hissed breath and a slow up-and-down that makes Adam's toes curl. Adam's hands are on Bono's hips before he can think, fingers spread wide and nails dug in, pulling him down the last couple of inches, pulling him down until he's buried balls-deep inside, too quickly for Bono to do anything but cry out, shuddering helplessly.

It's push and pull, shove and yank, Bono feeling heavier and heavier against his pelvis, whether by accident or design is no longer of any concern. There's a point to be made and Adam's sure he can make it. He's well aware he's lost the battle, but there's still a minor skirmish or two up for grabs.

Even as Bono steals the rhythm, fighting the strength of Adam's hands with his whole body and crashing down on him faster, a weak smile plays on Adam's lips. He's not the cleverest man, nor the most brilliant strategist, but there is one skill he possesses that Bono can't beat. Just a glance, and Adam's hand flies from Bono's hip to grab his cock. In mid-push, Bono falters.

Adam laughs breathlessly. His hand-eye coordination is nothing compared to Edge's, but it's still well beyond Bono's ability. That single moment of distraction is all Adam needs. Two strokes of Bono's cock, a bent knee, a hard shove, and a little momentum is all it takes for him to roll them over.

The move drives him deeper and Bono's thighs wrap around him hard in response. Adam doesn't move. He's still, buried in all that lush, tight heat, waiting for the right moment. If they're going to do this - and the evidence so far seems to suggest that's a certainty - then they're fucking well going to do this his way.

"Adam...." Bono's voice is breathy and raw. His nails are gouging fresh grooves beside the ones already decorating Adam's back. "C'mon, Adam. What the fuck are you waiting for?"

Adam slides one hand between them and takes hold of Bono's cock, rubs his thumb over the slick head. Bono clenches around him. Any minute now....

Bono moans loudly, twisting his body to push up to Adam and causing Adam's thumb to press harder. But he doesn't say anything.

Adam's hand tightens, squeezing his cock roughly, forcing the head to swell even more. Bono whines, pouts, and stares, his eyes almost accusing, but Adam can't wonder what that could mean. If he gets distracted now, it'll all be over, so he stores it away, intent to think about it later, already knowing he'll forget until next time.

"Bono," he whispers, twisting his fist slowly.

He feels the reaction in Bono's body before he sees it in his face, but it's Bono's voice that reaches deepest. The long, needy moan, vulnerable somehow in a way Bono hasn't seemed until now, makes him want to slip his free hand around the back of Bono's head, raise it up so he can kiss him. Bono's mouth is sweet and cool, opening to him easily, and even the teeth that sink gently into Adam's bottom lip only make him want it more.

Still kissing him, Adam begins to move at last, with long, careful thrusts. Broad, strong hands twine into Adam's hair, angling him to bring the kiss deeper, and Adam lets him. It's a small concession and the only one Bono's going to get.

The hot liquid seeping from Bono's cock makes it easier to stroke him in time with his rhythm, slowly, steadily. Too slow for either of them. When at last Bono whines impatiently into their kiss and his legs tighten around Adam's hips, all Adam does is smile and keep going.

It can't last too long, but while it does, Adam's determined to enjoy it. Enveloped in Bono's taste and scent and body, a tiny part of him holds back, wary for Bono's next move. Maybe a twist of his back or a bite of his tongue, anything to remind Adam that things are never as they seem.

The whining quiets and achingly soft moans take its place. Tender fingers caress the curves of Adam's shoulders and he moans himself, melting deeper into Bono's mouth before he can stop himself. Dangerous, but isn't everything now?

Adam can arm himself against anything but this sweet, drugging tenderness. Against this, he's got nothing. It's Bono's special gift, among the multitude nature has given him, to be able to make you believe and he has Adam believing now. Believing this might mean something, believing that the way Bono's touching him and kissing him and the sounds he's making aren't just tactics in a long game.

He has two choices, he realises, as Bono's hands stroke - God, so gently - down his back: he can play the game out to the bitter end and keep some shred of himself safe, or he can give himself up to it, let himself revel in this, no matter what the damage bill is at the end.

The decision's made before he can even finish the thought.

Just a push, firm and careful at the same time, and Bono's sigh drifts down Adam's spine; he has to thrust the same way again. Then a little faster, to keep the sounds coming, to keep those hands petting him, to keep the press of heels against his lower back. It's heady, more intoxicating than the wine and whiskey backstage, more disorienting than the grass he'd smoked in the dressing room. It’s perfect, the highest high Adam's ever known.

So Bono, naturally, has to ruin it. By talking.

There are a number of things which may comprise acceptable mid-coital conversation, Adam thinks, battling to ignore Bono's voice as he feels the high slipping away. Clichéd things, certainly, but still acceptable. 'Harder' would be all right, 'I love your cock' equally so, even the ever-popular 'you're beautiful', while still a gross exaggeration, would be easy enough to write off to the excitement of the moment. But Bono, the man who's never met a cliché he didn't like, isn't saying any of those things. He has to pick this of all moments to avoid the obvious.

It's enough to make a strong man weep. On the other hand, Adam's never claimed an excess of strength, so he deals with the frustration by fisting both hands in Bono's hair and shutting him up the old fashioned way. Bono's mouth is open, predictably enough, but it does allow Adam to kiss him deep and long, proving that every cloud does indeed have a silver lining.

Bono gives a small, surprised squawk into Adam's mouth and a longer, less happy whine a second later when he realises that Adam only has two hands and they're both in his hair now. Adam figures Bono will get over that quite soon.

And one thing Adam can say for Bono, he's not slow to catch on. He's given up trying to talk, kissing him back instead, meeting Adam's every thrust with the rocking of his hips, the only sounds coming out of his mouth wordless, soft and delicious on Adam's tongue. Adam can feel himself getting close.

He has to untangle his fingers from Bono's thick hair, pulling a little in the process but as damp as they both are, it can't be avoided. If anything, the slight pain might help. The real trick will be keeping Bono's mouth occupied while making the final assault.

The reaction is electric and Adam's not sure if it's his fingers jolting Bono and making him buck up harder, or whether the spark's flowing in the other direction, making him move faster. Whichever it may be, it still feels like an imminent overload, with his skin tingling and his heart racing. His lips slide away from Bono's, long enough to gasp, then he has to kiss him again, has to stop that voice that's already trying to say his name.

Bono manages an ' _aaa_ ' that might or might not be a stab at Adam's name before Adam seals their mouths tightly together again. With one hand braced beside Bono's head on the bed, Adam can kiss him and bring him off and fuck him without missing a beat. Without breaking the circuit. Without losing too much.

And it is electric. It's buzzing in his veins and in his head, sparking down his spine and making him drive faster into Bono's body. He's burning with it, sweating and seared, but he can't stop moving. He's deep inside it, so deep he's not sure if he's driving the rhythm or the rhythm's driving him.

Until it breaks, because everything must.

Bono's coming beneath him, tearing his mouth away with a ragged cry, cock jerking in Adam's fist. Whatever tenuous control Adam has shatters in those seconds and he thrusts in one last time, burying himself deep and coming so hard the pleasure is almost pain.

When Adam can finally think again, it's a rush of words, as breathless and loose as his body. Phrases, sentences, all rejected before they can reach his lips. There are no kisses now, no more caresses. Just a low grunt as he untangles their bodies and rolls onto his back, a hand hanging off the bed. Aside from panting, Bono's rather quiet himself.

To ask or not to ask, it's always a question and one that Adam's never sure if he gets right. But asking might imply more than he's ready to say, so he sets manners aside and sits up, just long enough to turn off the light and get rid of the condom. If Bono stays or goes is now up to him.

Adam would like to think he doesn't care either way, but that would be a lie. He turns onto his side, facing Bono but not touching him, then rolls his eyes. Who does he think he's kidding? And when exactly did this become about denying himself what he wants anyway? Adam reaches out to Bono at the same instant that Bono shifts towards him, sidling close. He feels good there, warm and solid and mostly just very right. Adam lays an arm across him, laughing softly in the dark, mainly at himself.

"What?" Bono asks, his voice a rough whisper.

"Nothing," Adam tells him, just as quietly. "Nothing at all."

Adam knows that sometimes the old clichés are right; it really doesn't matter whether he wins or loses, but how the game’s been played. A more cynical side of him thinks that’s too optimistic, or pathetic, and it’s a toss-up which would be worse. Closing his eyes, he lets his mind drift, not trying to think, not trying to stop it. He knows he should really start planning for the next round, but without knowing how long it will be – days, weeks, months? – until Bono throws out the next challenge, Adam doesn’t see the point. It’s his own strategy and so far, it’s worked.

He can’t be bothered to think it through right now. Bono’s already snoring and Adam will be soon enough. After a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Bono, himself, and sex, his tired brain finally settles. One more kiss, a freebie outside of their game, to Bono’s peaceful face and Adam smiles as Bono snuggles closer.

It’s the most honest exchange they’ve had all night.


End file.
